In the Absence of Light
by wizardology101
Summary: 10 days 10 hours 34 minutes: Dean's shaking when Bobby finds him, standing in between the beds at the motel, gaze blank and fixed on the floor. The place is totaled. Chairs are overturned, table smashed. A clock ticks away beneath the wreckage. "Sam," Dean whispers. Just that. Nothing more. And Bobby knows, as he's sure Dean does, time is running out. Sequel.


_A/N: I'm back finally! Welcome to all new readers and welcome back to all old readers! I hope you guys enjoy!_

_Sequel to _When Trust Breaks_, the trailer for which can be found here: __****__www. youtube (.com) (/) watch?v=DJXPKFbnQGY __(without the spaces and parentheses). This one will probably make more sense if you understand the basics of that one.__  
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_____Disclaimer: __I don't own _Supernatural_______. If I did, the show would have very little plot and a great deal of chick-flickiness._

* * *

_10 days, 10 hours, 34 minutes_

Dean's shaking when Bobby finds him, standing in between the beds at the motel, gaze blank and fixed on the floor. The place is totaled, chairs overturned, table smashed. Half of a mattress is lying on the floor on top of a fallen ceiling fan, the other half propped up against the end table, lamp it knocked over smashed apart on the floor. "Dean..." he whispers, words drifting off because he has no idea what else to say, isn't even sure if there is anything else to say.

Fingers seizing at his sides, Dean's gaze raises to the television and the big gaping hole right in the middle of it, wires spilling out over the edge like human guts. He's doesn't say anything, doesn't move; his face doesn't even change. "Dean," Bobby repeats, a little stronger this time though he feels weaker with every step he takes into the room.

Glass crunches beneath his boot. Stuffing from a torn apart pillow brushes at his pants leg. There are bloody footprints smeared across the floor in front of him and Bobby feels his lunch start to come back up, all three bites of it.

And then Dean's moving, a hesitant step forwards, staggering around on stiff legs. His hand falls onto the paisley wallpaper, close but not touching the ring of blood spatters strewn across it. Drifting back across the room, his palm presses down against the end table, gaze locking on the crimson-painted corner. And the look on his face is so empty, so terrified, so hopeless, so exactly like it was when he saw that car for the first time, the one left abandoned on the side of the road what seems like forever ago. He looks like a child, Bobby realizes as Dean's fingers skid over the different items in the room, as if he's not able to understand it through just sight alone. An innocent confusion that hasn't existed in Dean's world since John had to explain where Mommy went.

Swallowing over the lump in his throat, Bobby's eyes fall to the ground, one of the less destroyed spaces, unable to look anymore.

Then it goes silent.

Dean's not moving anymore.

A clock ticks somewhere within the wreckage. How it survived, Bobby doesn't know. If it's even real... Bobby doesn't know that either.

Tick...

Tick...

Tick...

Ringing silence.

"Someone's gonna have to pay for this." Dean's voice pierces through the thickness in the air. Bobby looks up, gaze landing on Dean, Dean who's now standing in front of the television, clutching the spilling out cords in his hand. And in that moment, Bobby knows that he's not talking about the objects in the room or the possible cost to their fake bank accounts.

Slowly and deliberately, Dean turns to face him, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched. And Bobby knows he was wrong. So wrong. That little boy in Dean was killed a long time ago.

Dean's eyes go blank as he yanks, a quick jerk of his hand, and the cables come free from the destroyed television.

* * *

_10 days, 3 hours, 17 minutes_

He seems fine for the most part, very methodical about the whole thing. Surprisingly so, actually. Bobby expected him to be more... _emotional_. More shoot, destroy, maim, kill, than question, plan, plan some more. And he supposes that's good. The only way to survive situations like this is to remove yourself from them, to pretend that you have no connection to what's going on, ensure that you do your best but realize in the end, that's all you can do.

Dean takes a swig of the beer sitting on the table next to him - a new state, a new motel, a new credit card, a new name - and continues searching for demonic fingerprints in the area, unaware of Bobby's heavy stare.

The end of seven hours of research and Bobby has watched Dean treat this as if it's any other case, searching as usual, wisecracks as usual, as if it's not bothering him at all.

As if everything is perfectly normal.

"Got it," Dean announces, standing up, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. A smirk pulls at his lips, eyebrows raise. "Let's go find us a demon."

And then he's out the door.

Scratching at his chin, Bobby sighs and stands up, shutting off the lights as he follows after him.

* * *

_9 days, 19 hours, 23 minutes_

"Dean," Bobby whispers, scratching at the side of his face. "What're ya doin'?" It's nearly four in the morning. Bobby went to sleep at one and at that point, Dean was still awake, doing the exact same thing he is now. It doesn't even look like he's moved, not an inch, chair at the kitchen table turned at exactly the same angle it was three hours ago.

One of Dean's eyebrows raise and he glances down at the gun in his hand, giving him a look that says, _What do you think I'm doing?_ Sighing, Bobby runs his hand over his face, heading towards the counter. "We got beds for a reason, idgit."

"Not tired," he answers, checking the chamber of the shotgun he was just cleaning. There are knives, guns, machetes, and pretty much every other weapon ever invented spread across the table, spilling over onto the floor. And honestly, Bobby has no idea where half of these have come from. He can't remember getting them, can't remember Dean having them before either. "'sides, gotta listen." He taps his ear and sets the gun down, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

Gotta listen. Yeah.

"You go to bed. I'll listen." They made it to one of the hunter's safe houses with the demon, stuck it in a devil's trap in the basement.

Dean stares at him for a minute, opens his mouth to shoot back some - probably smart-ass - response, but then he blinks, closes his mouth, and nods.

He stands up, setting the gun with the stack on the table. "Let me know if something happens."

Then he's gone and Bobby doesn't know what to think. Because Dean has never given into anything that easily in his life, let alone something that will help keep him alive.

* * *

_9 days, 16 hours, 55 minutes_

By the time Bobby went down there, the holy water bath had more than done its work, meaning that as Dean slept, the demon gave Bobby everything.

So now they can move on.

"Dean," Bobby hisses, shaking at his shoulder. "Get up. We're movin' on."

That's met with nothing more than a grumble. Eyes narrowing, Bobby grabs a shirt from the floor and tosses it at the back of the kid's unconscious head. _"Dean_."

Nothing. Huh. That usually works. But then, Dean probably hasn't slept in a good twenty-four hours. Maybe he's just exhausted.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

He turns the mattress over, dumping Dean's snoring ass onto the floor.

This is met with a great deal of flailing and cursing and other unpleasantries. "Got info. Gotta move, kid."

Dean glares at him, runs his hand down his face, and sighs, shaking his head to clear it of sleep. "Fine. Shit. Let me figure out which way the ground is first."

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry for interruptin' your beauty sleep, princess, but we got a schedule to keep."

That just gets him another glare and some rather colorful gestures as Dean forces his way to his feet, using the bedside table as leverage. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders back. But then he freezes.

It's only for a split second, not enough that anyone else would notice, but enough that Bobby does. Enough that he can't miss the way Dean's gaze flickers back towards him. The way Dean then snags something off the table, stuffs it in his pocket, and stumbles his way towards the bathroom.

By the time Dean tosses the jeans on the duffle in exchange for another pair, whatever it was has been removed.

* * *

_9 days, 2 hours, 35 minutes_

In the car, on their way to some other state, following a lead handed out by a demon. Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby watches fingers twitch on a steering wheel, a body shift in a seat that once was all but made for him. Dean glances up at the rear-view mirror, a quick flicker, then back to the road. Up again.

Then his gaze falls to his hands. And stays there. His eyes narrow, knuckles pale, fingers seize. "What the f-"

Headlights blur. Someone slams on a horn. _"Look out!"_ Bobby shouts, grabs the top of the wheel and yanks to the right, sending the Impala flying past an oncoming truck. Its frantic honking fades away as Bobby watches Dean blink his eyes, shake his head, pull the Impala back to straight._ "What the hell, Dean!?"_ he demands, turning to face him in the car.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut again, jerks his head. "Uh- Sorry. Um... Just- tired, I guess."

Eyes narrowing, Bobby sees him glance down at his hands again, sees his throat bob. "Uh huh. Sure."

* * *

_8 days, 16 hours, 8 minutes_

The punches are measured, as are the kicks, all focused with the precise amount of power required to fell the man in the fastest way possible. Bobby lets the man drop from his gasp, crumple to his knees, as Dean shakes his hand out and spins away for a moment, chest heaving. Nose crinkling up in disgust at the sniveling creature beneath him, Bobby rolls his eyes. "Wanna talk now?"

The man cracks. So fast, so easily. Babbling out everything he can think of from the new person-of-interest's build to the color of his shoes, then going even further by admitting to his own role in the smashing of the motel room. An informant. This guy is an informant, the kind that will search for and sell out anyone for the right price.

Including the Winchesters.

From the current state of his face, he has to be more than aware that he picked the wrong anyone this time.

"Louisiana. Vampire. Got it," Bobby cuts him off, nodding at Dean whose gaze is locked on the kneeling form in front of him. "Let's head out." Bobby starts towards the door, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans. There's a new lead, one they need to follow before the trail runs cold. And if this guy is telling the truth, this thing goes far deeper, far further, is far more extensive than either of them had originally thought. And there's nothing comforting about that knowledge at all.

He makes it halfway back to the door before he realizes Dean isn't following.

Slowly turning back around, he hears the man begin to plead, begin to beg, but it's no more than a drone, hovering along the edges of his skull. Because he's too focused on what he sees. And what he sees is Dean's jaw clench, seize, sees the rise and fall of the kid's chest go faster, heavier-

"Dean?" Bobby's own voice snaps through the buzzing in his head, echoes around the empty room. But it makes Dean's head turns towards him, causes his gaze to land on him, and his chest stops heaving. The man stops begging, letting out his own breath of relief. "He's human, Dean. Let's just go."

But then Dean's eyes flash, and in one motion, as the man screams, _"No!"_, Dean yanks his gun out of his jeans and fires it straight into the human's forehead.

A body collapses against the floor with a thump.

Jaw clenching, with all the calm of a contract killer, Dean starts towards the exit, slipping the gun into the waistband of his jeans. He doesn't say anything. Offers no explanation. Just opens the door and disappears outside.

And Bobby realizes just then that he was mistaken. So greatly, greatly mistaken.

* * *

_8 days, 9 hours, 44 minutes_

They're not really doing anything. Nothing more than walking down the side of the street, scoping out the houses in the area, when Dean collapses for the first time.

It happens so quickly, so quietly that Bobby's not even aware that Dean's not still walking next to him until he's halfway down the block. When he does though, he flips around, runs back to the corner so fast he feels his legs burn. _"Dean!" _he hears himself shout, feels his hand fall onto the kid's shoulder. But Dean doesn't respond.

Knees on the ground, uneven breaths lifting the shaking chest, Dean's eyes are wide, forehead wrinkled, mouth twisted up in pain and shock and confusion as he stares down at his stomach, pressing his palm flat against his abdomen.

And that's just it. One is already gone. Bobby can't lose another.

He reaches into his pocket, going for his cell phone. Because Dean needs an ambulance. That's agony on his face. That's fear and worry and _What the hell is happening to me?_ so he needs someone to fix it. And Bobby needs him to be okay-

But then a hand snaps out and locks around his wrist.

Bobby turns back, eyes falling on Dean's once confused face. Confusion that is no longer there. Instead, there's nothing, as if there was never anything wrong at all. As if he just decided to kneel down on the ground for the hell of it. "It's fine," Dean says, back straightening as he pushes himself to his feet. He doesn't even wince, his lips actually twitching up in a smile. "I'm good."

But Bobby catches it when Dean's eyes linger a little too long on his hands, catches it when he wipes them on his pants even though Dean had never even touched the ground.

"Dean-"

"We gotta go." And so he goes. And though Bobby knows he should stop this, knows none of this can be good, he lets him.

* * *

_8 days, 0 hours, 3 minutes_

The pole comes down again. Blood spatters across tan, straining arms, falling in patterns across the concrete floor. Over and over and over.

Smash-

Crunch-

Smash-

Crunch-

Surging forward, Bobby catches the wrist on the upswing, dark eyes flipping to face him with a look far more terrifying than anything he has seen before, monster or human, alive or dead. "It's dead, Dean," he says, trying to keep his voice quiet, strong. But he can hear it waver and he can feel his hand shake as Dean's arm does.

Slowly, so slowly, Dean blinks once- twice- then his gaze shifts down to the body on the floor beneath him. Bobby can see him process it all, the red everywhere, on Dean's shirt, splattered across his jeans, soaking in through the soles of his shoes, covering his hands. The face and head smashed, so malformed, it's no longer identifiable from a crater. But Dean's arm, still clutching the metal pole with white knuckles, doesn't lower.

"C'mon. We gotta move on."

Dean blinks again, draws in a breath. And then he's back, shaking his head and dropping the pole to the ground. "New Orleans," he says. "There next."

As he walks out the door of the warehouse, Bobby follows him, leaving the long cold corpse lying across the floor.

The police will never find it. Nor will they find the arsonists who burned down the old textile warehouse.

It's okay though. Really. That building was due for demolition anyway.

* * *

_7 days, 20 hours, 52 minutes_

"I was only gone for five minutes. Just went to the office to get him another towel." Another shot thrown back, another set in front of him. "I shoulda taken 'im with me."

* * *

_7 days, 16 hours, 00 minutes_

The woman leans over the bar, lips near Dean's ear. She presses herself up against his body, whispering to him. Dean's rubbing at the back of his hand, eyes more focused on it than on her, though he nods as she finishes speaking, shooting her a smile. And Bobby figures that something more will come of this because with an invitation as clear as that, there's few who would turn it down.

But then, as Bobby nurses his beer from across the room, Dean knocks back his shot, stands up, tosses money on the counter, and moves off. He approaches Bobby's table, doesn't even stop as he blows past. "Montana."

Back at the beginning of this, only three days that seemed like three years, Bobby thought his nonchalance, the fast, cursory way he threw out information was because he trusted Bobby to follow, knew he'd be moving just as fast towards the exit.

But now, Bobby has to wonder if it's more that Dean no longer cares if he follows at all.

* * *

_7 days, 15 hours, 49 minutes_

"It's too far away, Dean. It'll take days we don't have to drive all the way over there-"

"Then we'll fly."

* * *

_6 days, 5 hours, 53 minutes_

_"Where_!? _Tell...me...now_." And in that moment, Bobby knows that there isn't a shred of the young boy he once knew left. The one who spent summers all but destroying his home. The one he played catch with in that field.

Though Bobby isn't surprised. He's more than well aware of the things desperation can do to a person, witnessed it firsthand as Sam spiraled away and out of control what seems like forever ago.

And in Dean's eyes, Bobby sees nothing but burning determination, rage. The look of a kamikaze.

_"Where is he!?"_ It's so hard, nearly impossible, for Bobby to keep his mouth shut, to stand back in the doorway and remain sympathetic, level-headed. Or at least attempt to. Because his sole job is to make sure Dean doesn't kill the freak. But the more desperate Dean becomes, the more panicked and lost, and the less she cooperates, the harder it becomes for Bobby to remember why that is so important. Because really, he can't see the positive to keeping Dean in control. Not at all. Not when he wants her and her group dead almost as much as Dean does.

"Burning in Hell!" it screams back, cold laughter tearing, ripping its way from the thing's throat. And it's not surprising when Dean doesn't even hesitate, barely lets it get the words out before he's dragging the knife down its arm.

Slowly and with far more calm than anyone should possess as screams ricochet off the walls, Dean kneels down in front of the chair they have the demon tied to, lashed in the middle of a devil's trap. Eyes narrowing, he stares up at what used to be a woman, a look on his face that makes even Bobby shiver, sending ice slipping down his spine. And he has to wonder how far he should let this go, if he should have let this start in the first place. Because Dean is slipping away, falling farther and farther and farther into the Dean created in Hell. And Bobby knows that if Sam were here, he'd never accept this, never let Dean do this at all. If Sam were here, he'd ask Dean to stop and Dean would. Done. End of story.

But then, if Sam were here, none of this would be an issue, would it?

Dean repeats, words level, steady, "Where is he?" He runs his fingers along the tip of the blade, avoiding the tainted blood that covers it, dragging a deep breath in through his nose. "Tell me where he is, you _bitch_."

But despite the clear threat, the slight edge of hysteria that crept into Dean's voice in that last word, the demon just smirks and looks down at him, tilting its head to the side. "Hell. I sent him back there myse-" And had Dean been any slower, Bobby would have beaten him to one of the buckets of holy water they have strewn throughout the room. But Dean's faster, always has been, and he has the entire thing upended over its head in less than a second, the barrel clanging away from his side as the demon's screams fill the air.

Dean shakes his head, eyes squeezing closed for a moment. But then he's back, bending over the chair, resting his hands on the armrests as he places himself right in her face.

It's in that second, with that look in Dean's eyes, that Bobby realizes. It won't matter if he does want to stop Dean. It won't matter at all. Because Dean isn't going to stop, can't now. Not until he gets what he wants and nothing Bobby can say will change that. "You know who I am," Dean hisses. "You know who I was trained by. Which means you know that I can make you hurt in ways you can't even imagine." Said so quietly, right into the demon's ear. But it's not the shameful admission it once would have been. It's not a painful truth, one he wishes he could hide, bury away and out of sight. Because now, Dean can use it to protect Sam. And if he can use it to protect Sam, then there's no point in being ashamed of it. "So unless you tell me what you've done with my brother? Get comfy."

Its head tipping to the side, the demon smirks, eyes narrowing. "I know you, Dean Winchester. You wouldn't do anything to permanently damage this lovely casing. Not this poor, poor, innocent little human. She never did anything."

"Well," Dean stands, eyebrows raising, shoulders shrugging, "you obviously don't know me that well." Bobby knows that the girl that once owned that body is already dead, has been for awhile now. But the demon doesn't know they know that.

And the frightening thing is, at this point, he isn't sure Dean would even care either way.

Bobby closes his eyes, sighs. No. No, it really doesn't know Dean Winchester at all.

Dean turns around, reaching for Ruby's knife on the table behind him, and the smile slips from the demon's face. Like it's finally realized what deep shit it's in. Like it's finally realized that this is Dean Winchester, _Dean Winchester_, the legend crafted on Earth and twisted in Hell. Like it's finally beginning to realize what so many have died learning: _You do not touch Dean Winchester's little brother._

So it fights back. It has to. It's in its nature and if it's going down, it's not going alone. "I used to watch, y'know. A lot of us did. Great show."

Bobby can see, even from where he's standing, the muscles in Dean's back tense, can see them lock into place as his jaw slams shut and seizes. This demon has just signed its own death certificate. And it knows it. And Bobby's kind of angry at himself for not putting together sooner that that's exactly what it wants. A quick and easy death. One stab to the chest or the neck because Dean Winchester can't stand to hear it speak any longer. "Watching Lucifer peel flesh from bone-"

If she doesn't shut up soon, it's not necessarily Dean she'll have to worry about. Bobby's more than capable of wielding a demon-killing blade.

"Shut up." Dean doesn't turn around. Instead, the words are growled to the wall in front of him, an action that somehow serves to make them even more terrifying.

"Hearing him scream-"

"I said, _shut up!"_ Dean shouts, and before Bobby can even process what's happening, Dean brings Ruby's knife straight through the demon's shoulder, pinning it to the back of the wooden chair. Spinning away, he runs his hand down his face, high-pitched wailing bouncing against the walls of the room. And Bobby finds himself wondering if this is the line he isn't supposed to let Dean cross. If this is the point that, if it were possible, he should make this stop. Because this is too close, too raw. And there's no way either of them are going to be able to handle this much longer.

"Dean-" Bobby starts, stepping away from the wall, but he never gets any farther than that. Dean's gaze flickers over to him, and in that moment, all of Bobby's arguments dry up, muscles freezing in place beneath the weight of the ice in the younger man's eyes.

"She knows where he is," Dean says, voice heavy. "She knows-"

_"He screamed for you!"_ the demon shouts through its sobs, dark hair falling, hiding its face. Flipping back around it, the ice morphs, transforms into a fire that burns so black and strong Bobby knows it'll be impossible to put out. And Bobby really wishes that he could just let Dean kill the thing. Because this needs to stop. Because neither of them need to hear the shit she's saying or envision the images she's handing out.

Dean storms over to it, yanking the knife from its shoulder. When it lifts its head, wetness paints its cheeks, strands of sweaty hair falling down over the wound. But it still won't stop. It's not dead yet so it's not done. Because it wants, _needs_ Dean to hurt, needs him to lose it. "Even when you were the one doing the torturing, he still screamed for big brother to come save him. But you didn't, did you!? _You didn't-!"_

_"Where is my brother!?"_

_"Hell!"_ The knife drives down through its thigh and this time, Bobby doesn't allow himself to hesitate. Not even as its screams all but shatter his eardrums and Dean reaches to drive the knife in again somewhere else. Not even as its voice blows out the tiny window at the back of the basement and Dean raises the blade above his head. Because Bobby knows what it looks like when someone cracks and knows that given another chance, that knife will go someplace far more vital.

Wrapping his arms around his pseudo-son's chest, he yanks Dean back, trying to keep him from driving more holes into the thing. "_Tell me where my brother is!"_ His voice melds with hers, together forming one of the most Earth-shattering, desperate sounds Bobby has ever heard.

"Dean, stop! Calm down!" Bobby shouts, trying to make himself heard over everything else, trying to hold back the struggling, far too determined body in front of him. But he isn't sure Dean has even registered that he's there, much less that he's said anything.

The demon's screams cut off as it starts to drag in deep breaths, chest heaving. And looking up through her eyelashes, she spits, "He's Lucifer's plaything."

Dean lunges forward, almost ripping himself from Bobby's grip. So Bobby does the only thing he can think of. He ducks around him, putting himself between the demon and the raging hunter. And as crazed as Dean has gotten, as single-minded as he has become, Bobby doesn't think he's yet at the point where he'll hit him.

Doesn't think, being the operative words there.

But again, Dean doesn't even seem to notice he's there. "You're lying," he growls over Bobby's shoulder. "Tell me where he is or I swear, I'll tear you apart."

It smirks, leg jerking, seizing with the muscle damage. "Sounds like fun."

Fingers twitching against his side, Dean's eyes meet Bobby's for the first time in what feels like hours. But this time it's a demand, a clear order for him to get out of the way. And Bobby would love to. Really. He would. Because he doesn't think that this is necessarily the safest place for him to be, standing in front of a really pissed off lion at feeding time. And honestly, he'd love to let Dean gut the thing. If it played any part in the events that brought them to this point, then it needs to die. No question about it.

But he couldn't let that happen. Not yet.

"You kill it, Dean, you'll never know."

Dean's eyebrows raise. "I know that." His voice is calm, almost as if he doesn't understand why Bobby feels the need to tell him something he finds so obvious.

"You won't know what happened," Bobby repeats, because it doesn't appear that Dean is getting it, doesn't appear that it's piercing through the thick film of red that's probably consuming the younger's mind.

Dean blinks. Once. Twice. Then repeats, "I know that." His eyes are blank, completely empty. And that's far scarier than either the fire or the ice. At least in both of those cases, Bobby knew what he was dealing with, knew where exactly Dean stood on the ladder of mental health. But not this. This is too logical, too clinical. Sensing Bobby's concern, hesitance, Dean sighs, adding, "I'm not gonna kill it." _I wouldn't do that_. The words are so heavily implied, tacked to the end of that sentence, that Bobby finds he can only nod. Because that he believes.

It's Sam. Dean wouldn't do that.

So taking a breath, Bobby nods and steps out of his way, keeping his eyes locked on the Demon-killing knife clutched in Dean's hand.

But Dean's eyes are locked on the demon.

And as his hand seizes around the handle of the blade, as he shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders back, neck cracking, Dean smirks.

* * *

_A/N 2: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you come back for the next part which will be up soon!_


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